


Feint and Tackle

by literaryspell



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, minor (fourteen)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-21
Updated: 2010-05-21
Packaged: 2017-10-23 04:39:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/246355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/literaryspell/pseuds/literaryspell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco challenges Harry to a series of Seeker's Quidditch games. Even though Draco wins, it feels like losing. But when he loses…</p>
            </blockquote>





	Feint and Tackle

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for my co-conspirator, my co-writer, my co-world dominator(dominatrix?), my co-everything, [](http://keppiehed.livejournal.com/profile)[**keppiehed**](http://keppiehed.livejournal.com/). I hope the fic is everything you love in H/D. Thank you for being my friend.
> 
> Huge thanks to Krystle Lynne and phoenix_fancies for the beta work.

"You mustn’t be too confident about the Triwizard Tournament if you're afraid to set yourself against me, Potter," Draco taunted. Even though he could only see Potter's back—the git had tried to walk away from him—he could tell the exact moment when the jibe sank in: Potter's stance stiffened.

He turned slowly. There was a look in his eyes that was a little more complicated than a simple need for victory, but Draco knew Potter wouldn’t back down. He couldn’t.

"What did you have in mind?" His voice was low, his eyes intent. Draco almost wanted to take a step back; he didn’t like being in such close proximity to Potter. One never knew when he would quit playing fair and hex a person.

To Potter's left was the trusty Weasel, arms crossed over his chest. Draco didn’t need to look behind himself to know that Crabbe and Goyle were flanked on either side, at the ready.

"Seeker's Quidditch," Draco said with a smirk. "Every night this week—best three out of five. Which means, in case you can’t count, that when I win the first three games, you won't have to humiliate yourself any more."

Giving a dismissive snort that rankled Draco, Potter said, "Fine. Midnight. On the pitch. _I'll_ bring the snitch."

Draco sneered to cover his disappointment. He'd learned a spell to make the snitch prefer, only slightly, mind, the player who spelled it. No matter. He'd played straight before. He snickered at his internal thought—he'd played a straight _game_ , anyway.

"Tonight, then," Draco said. He stood there, watching, until Potter and Weasley left, catching up with Granger and walking away without looking back.

"Can't wait to see you crush him," Crabbe said, mimicking said crushing action with a meaty fist into a large, flat palm.

Starting, Draco almost told them they couldn’t come. He hadn’t planned that part out. He certainly didn’t want an audience… in case Potter trounced him, unlikely though that was. He wasn’t going to discount Potter's renowned luck.

"You can come tonight," he said, thinking quickly. "But after that I'll need you to go to bed and cover for me. It wouldn't do for all three of us to be missing, would it?"

"What do we say if someone asks where you are?"

"Say…" Draco smiled, knowing it was probably creepy. "Say I'm… studying." It was the truth, after all. He'd be making sure to take notes… on Potter's spectacular failure.

*

In the air, Draco could barely see Crabbe or Goyle, dressed in dark clothes as he'd instructed. Weasley and Granger were a different story. The idiots were wearing full Gryffindor gear, red sweaters with red and gold scarves. They even had a red blanket over their knees as they huddled together.

"Your moronic friends are going to get us caught. Could you be any more obvious?" On his broom, Draco circled Potter, who was standing, before setting his feet on the ground and getting into the starting position in the middle of the field.

"Don't worry about them," Potter said with a smirk that Draco thought made him look almost Slytherin.

Rolling his eyes, Draco threw his hand up in their direction, only to find they were no longer where they'd been sitting a moment before. He turned back to Potter with a glare, which deepened when Potter met it with innocently raised eyebrows.

It didn’t matter. "Ready?" Draco snapped, angry for no real reason. Potter always managed to get him so wound up, even though he'd vowed he wouldn’t let that happen this year. That all changed when Potter'd been "chosen" by the Goblet of Fire. He hated Potter for breaking all the rules and never getting in trouble for it.

He'd shown him. Tonight.

Draco let the snitch go and it hovered between them, waiting for Potter's word. Seeker's Quidditch was a little different because the snitch rarely hid, instead leading the two Seekers on a merry chase, often including death-defying plunges to the ground and heart-stopping meanders around the towers and stands. The better flyer always won.

Potter studied his face for a strange moment as Draco's eyes flicked between Potter and the snitch, his body tensed and eager to begin.

Then Potter gave a wink—a _wink!_ —and said, "Ready."

The snitch was off like a shot and Potter's reflexes were flawless as he launched into the air after it. Draco forced himself to stop reeling from the wink and get his game face on. He kicked off, his broom an extension of his body as he flew, advancing on Potter quickly but not quite able to make it past him.

"What was that?" he shouted, his voice whipped by the wind, but he knew Potter heard him.

"What?" Potter shouted back, all innocence. But then he gave a saucy smirk, and Draco got the feeling they were playing two very different games.

The main component of the first half of their game was speed. Both were impressive flyers—Draco more strategic, Potter more bold. Draco, from his position of consistently behind Potter, knew that Potter was a brave and fearless flyer. He took risks that Draco himself never would have considered options—and they paid off. But Draco was better able to predict where the snitch would dart next, and he used that knowledge to cut Potter off.

Throughout the entire game, Potter continued to dart glances back at him, sometimes smiling, sometimes just _looking_ in a very unnerving way. Draco's stomach was in knots, and not just from the tension of the game, though that was playing a part. He didn’t know what Potter was _doing_ ; he hated not being able to suss out his opponent's strategy.

Finally the game seemed to come down to the two of them, broom tips level, at breakneck speed as the snitch led them higher and higher. Potter spared him nary a glance, and after all the looks he'd been shooting Draco's way, this utter absorption in winning stung a little.

Desperate, Draco flung out an arm to brace against Potter's chest and maybe even push him back enough to gain the upper hand, but Potter seemed to be expecting the move, and his hand clamped down around Draco's wrist, the hold biting and unbreakable.

"Let go!" Draco cried, seeing Potter gain an inch and then two. The snitch flickered teasingly just ahead.

Potter looked at him, his expression indecisive, and then he seemed to come to an abrupt conclusion, for he fairly threw Draco's arm back, and as Draco's hand arched, his fingertips teased a fluttering wing and with the instinct born of having Seeking in his very blood, Draco's fingers slammed shut around a solid ball.

Draco cried his victory into the wind, leaving Potter behind as he gave a lazy victory lap of the pitch, carrying on as though he was receiving a standing ovation from the entire school and not just dopey grins from his two clueless mates.

No matter. He'd _won._

"Like that, Potter?" he crowed once they'd both landed. He couldn’t help his laughter, high and jubilant—he'd beaten Potter. He'd won and no one could take that from him.

For some reason, Potter didn’t look defeated. His cheeks were flushed and wind-whipped, his eyes bright behind his glasses. His hair resembled nothing more than a porcupine. In short, he looked ridiculous. So why didn’t he seem to _feel_ that way?

Potter thrust out his gloved hand, a wild smile on his lips. Why did Potter look like _he'd_ won the game? Had he lost his marbles _and_ the snitch?

"Good game, Malfoy. Real close at the end there."

Draco knew his face was moulded in suspicion as he reached out and took Potter's hand. It seemed the like the world around them held its breath. A half-formed, half-forgotten scene replayed itself before his eyes. Draco offering and Potter not taking his hand…

"Thanks," Draco said, frowning. He was confused. He'd won, yes, but… again he had the feeling that there was more than just a game of Quidditch being played.

It was much, much too late by the time Draco realised how long he'd been holding Potter's hand. With a grunt, he threw the hand away and held his own against his chest. Had Potter cast Confundus against him? By the knowing look in Potter's eye, Draco knew _something_ was up.

"Tomorrow night? Same time?" Potter said, slipping his gloves off and tucking them into his back pocket, making his Quidditch trousers more snug against his front. Draco looked away.

"Believe it." Draco tossed the snitch in the air and caught it easily. "And the night after—and when I win both games, you'll never live it down."

"So is that what we're playing for? Eternal glory and bragging rights?"

Wasn’t that enough? "I'd suggest a wager, but you couldn’t possibly pay the stakes."

To his infuriation, Potter just rolled his eyes and didn’t rise to the bait at all. "How about a different kind of wager?"

Draco was intrigued despite himself. "Like what?" He knew he would win, so whatever Potter suggested was a sure thing for him.

"The loser has to say whatever the winner wants… in front of the entire school."

Scoffing, Draco shook his head. "That's a pretty weak wager." Potter's Gryffindor roots were showing. There was nothing Draco couldn’t twist to suit his own needs, but if Draco, say, decided to have Potter swear allegiance to the Dark Lord, the entire wizarding world would know about it.

But Draco knew he wouldn’t do that. He just hoped his father never heard about his missed opportunity.

When Draco came out of his thoughts, Potter was in his personal space, fingers playing with the wing of the snitch that was fluttering through Draco's clenched fist. From afar, it probably looked like they were holding bloody hands! Draco jerked the snitch away. Potter was totally psychotic.

"Think of all the things you could have me say," Potter whispered. For some reason, it sounded a lot more appealing when said in that low voice.

Draco was certain now—he was definitely Confunded.

"Fine," Draco said, _not_ breathlessly. "Deal." He held out his hand and there was only a minute clenching of his heart in the space between his action and Potter's reaction, taking his hand and shaking it firmly.

"Deal."

*

The next night, Potter seemed to have told his friends the same thing Draco had said to Crabbe and Goyle—to stay in the dorm rooms. It was only the two of them on the field, walking into the centre from opposite sides, Draco in his consummate green Quidditch outfit and Potter wearing denims and a black hooded sweatshirt.

"You're not wearing your Quidditch gear," Draco said as the distance between them shrank. "Chickening out so soon?"

"I could out-fly you wearing nothing, Malfoy," Potter taunted back, though there wasn’t much edge to the jibe and Potter seemed to know that Draco was more discomfited than threatened by the remark.

Rolling his eyes to hide his alarming reaction to the mental image, Draco said, "When you lose, it'll be just as humiliating as if you were naked."

The two looked at each for a long moment. Draco was silently pleading that the conversation turn back to jeers and jabs and not so much with the nakedness.

With a cocky grin, Potter let his fingers uncurl—no gloves this time—and the snitch reared up and over their heads, flitting about while they mounted their brooms, eyes only on the golden ball that would bring victory.

"Ready?" Potter asked, one side of his mouth curled into a grin that revealed a sharp canine tooth.

Draco almost felt like he was in danger from that smile. "Ready."

They shot into the air, spiralling around each other like they'd rehearsed it. They were so evenly matched that the game continued for longer than it rightfully should have. Draco continued to make informed choices and only took risks when the potential payoff was too great to lose. Potter made stupid choices that were rewarded with stupid luck, and Draco hated him.

Draco ended the game when a well-planned strategy came to fruition. After a series of feints and false starts, Draco had Potter flying in circles, thinking Draco had his eye on the snitch. But it was only a distraction—when Draco did eventually catch sight of his quarry, he dove after it hard and fast. Draco knew Potter wouldn’t follow because he'd been tricked too many times before, and he was right. It was way too late by the time Potter realised Draco had played him.

"That's two, Potter!" Draco shouted into the air where Potter was flying down smoothly. "One more and your humiliation begins."

"You play for keeps, eh, Malfoy?" Potter said, panting. He had that same infuriating smile on his lips from last time. Didn’t he know when he'd lost?

"No other way to play," Draco said. He squeezed the snitch, feeling its cool solidity against his hot hand. Victory was in sight.

"Good game, mate," Potter said. He walked away, leaving Draco to watch his back with a dumbfounded look on his face.

 _Mate_? Since when were they friends? Since when were they anything? Potter was acting like he'd just played a casual game against the Weasel, not like he'd lost yet again to brilliant seeker Draco Malfoy who was going to use his win to make Potter regret ever…

Well, Potter hadn't really done anything this time. The games had been Draco's idea. Still, Potter was just irritating.

Draco wiped the sweat from his face and made his way toward the lockers. He needed a shower—he'd worked hard to keep Potter following him, chasing him, looking at him.

His heart confused itself by sinking and soaring at the same time when he saw Potter's messy Muggle clothing sitting on a bench by the showers. Draco supposed it made sense: Potter was the only person alive who got dirty without even touching the ground. Of course he'd need a shower.

But Draco needed one, too. There were stalls, but they only covered from mid-waist to shin, and in Draco's estimation, that was too much bared to Potter's myopic gaze.

As he stood there, deliberating, he realised he was putting way too much stock in Potter's opinion. Draco looked good naked, damn it—he had nothing to be embarrassed about. It wasn’t like it was the first time they'd ever showered at the same time. With the showers being shared between the locker rooms, it happened often.

Well, not _often._ That would be weird.

Draco pushed Potter's sloppily piled clothes onto the floor and undressed, leaving his neatly folded uniform in their place. With his head held high, he grabbed a towel but didn’t wrap it around himself, choosing to walk in the nude to a stall.

He chose one a few stalls down from Potter, who looked over and gave him a nod.

It was odd, this shared intimacy. They were both naked. They were enemies and yet they had no shields, no protection.

Draco disdained the soap with a suspicious eye, but he hadn't brought any of his own. He hadn't expected to work so hard to win. He lathered quickly, unable to help that his eyes darted over to Potter every few moments.

Potter looked strange in the shower. It was like seeing a shark at a picnic table or something. Out of place and just plain wrong. He'd taken his glasses off—they were perched on top of the separator. His eyes were closed and Draco could only see his profile. Instead of Draco's hurried washing, Potter's movement were leisurely, lazy.

He had an all right body, Draco thought, eyes narrowed. His was better, of course. Potter was fit enough, his chest having some subtle definition and his arms fairly muscled. His stomach didn’t have the abs Draco's did, but it was flat and smooth—the separator stopped around his navel, but when he turned just so, Draco could see a dark line of hair beneath his navel, leading below. Potter's fingers scratched into the hairs, soaping them.

Draco swallowed. It really wasn’t right to watch Potter, but he was leaving himself so vulnerable, almost like he wanted to be seen. Draco's eyes focused on Potter's arms—they were darkest at the forearm, going a little paler around his upper arms. The dark skin was intriguing in a way. Draco looked at his own pale, blue-veined arms and then back at Potter's.

Then Draco noticed Potter's arm was moving in a very distinctive manner.

Draco gasped, water flying into his lungs. He coughed raucously, flushing in embarrassment and outrage at Potter's crude actions. When he looked over again, Potter had one hand against the wall, propping himself up as his other hand moved steadily back and forth under the cover of the half wall.

"Potter! That is absolutely indecent!" Draco tried to sound forbidding, but his voice cracked halfway through, making him sound like a scandalised pure-blood witch.

Potter looked over at him, not stopping in the least. "It's perfectly natural, Malfoy. Everyone does it. Or did your parents tell you it would make you go blind?"

Draco gaped—Potter was _looking at him_ while he was _touching himself!_ Without really waiting for go-ahead from his brain, Draco's hand moved down and stroked his own half-hard prick. Sure, it was natural… Draco tore his hand away. But not here, not now!

"Don't you have any decency? You could at least wait until I'm gone! I'm scarred for life now." He surreptitiously adjusted the water temperature cooler.

Potter rolled his eyes and then turned his face back to the wall, dropping his head and groaning a little. "Then leave."

Mouth falling open to retort, Draco suddenly realised that his shower was, indeed, complete. It had been for some time… right about when he'd started to check Potter out.

 _Check Potter out?_ That was _not_ what he'd been doing!

Dear Merlin, he was going insane. Without saying another word, Draco shut off the shower and donned his towel, hustling out of the shower area. He dressed quickly, hating the feeling of sweaty cloths on clean skin. Then he spotted Potter's clothes on the floor.

Without letting himself think about it, Draco picked them and up and put them back on the bench where he'd found them. It was official: he was completely insane.

*

The next evening, Draco ruminated on telling Crabbe and Goyle to show up as witness to his utter demolition of Potter.

After much contemplation, though, he decided not to. He couldn’t really explain why. It unnerved him that he trusted Potter to the extent that he didn’t need anyone to see the win. Potter was a lot of things—a lot of very annoying things—but Draco suspected he was, at the very least, trustworthy.

His friends were disappointed that they wouldn’t get to see Potter taken down a notch, as that was inevitably what was going to happen, but Draco promised them they'd be to the first to hear about Draco's glorious and possibly even bloody victory. They were placated enough to let him go alone, and for some reason, that made Draco even more excited. To finish the game, of course. His mind was teeming with the possibilities of what he would have Potter say in front of the entire school.

When he made his way out to the pitch, Potter was lying on his back in the centre of it, hands beneath his head as he looked up into the inky night sky. Draco slowed his approach. It felt almost like a trap. He looked around for enemies but there were none: they were alone.

"Potter," Draco called, trying to get Potter's attention.

Potter sat up a little, resting on his elbows as he watched Draco come forward. He was wearing dark jeans and a red long-sleeved shirt. He looked awful in red—green would obviously be the better choice for him. Someone really should tell him that. It was almost embarrassing.

"Ready?" Potter asked, grinning as he rose to his feet without grace. Honestly, it was a wonder the boy could even fly at all. He sorely lacked finesse.

"I should be the one asking you. Have you warned the Gryffindors about your imminent defeat and subsequent humiliation?"

"Whatever, Malfoy. You ready or not?"

Since Potter was obviously all business, Draco decided to be the same way. "Ready."

They both straddled their brooms, Potter stationed closer to Draco than he should have been. The tips of their brooms were side-by-side instead of facing each other. Draco shrugged off the strange closeness, his eyes on the trembling snitch in Potter's hand.

"Set?"

Draco nodded, adjusting his seating until he was ready.

He needn’t have bothered, because Potter's hand—the one that wasn’t holding the snitch—shot out and grabbed Draco by the nape of his neck, hauling him forward until their faces were within breath-sharing range. Before Draco could put his shock into action, Potter's lips were a tease, a tickle against his.

"Go," Potter whispered, the words turning the tickle into a kiss.

The snitch bolted up from between them and hovered briefly before darting out into the night. Potter gave a gleeful laugh and reared his broom up, taking off.

Draco wasted precious moments on the ground, wondering what in the world had almost… no, _definitely_ just happened.

But the idea of Potter stealing a kiss _and_ the win was too much to bear, so he collected himself—at least outwardly—and leapt up, letting his broom do the work as he caught up to Potter.

Potter seemed to have waited for Draco, but once Draco pulled beside him, he took off to one side. Draco followed since he had nothing else to do—he wasn’t going to let Potter lead him on a merry chase as Draco had done the very night before, but the snitch was nowhere in sight and he had no better options.

It was the longest game yet. Draco was sweating from the effort he was putting into turns, spins, and dives. The air he was breathing felt thin and cold; he couldn’t get a proper breath. The snitch made regular appearances but seemed intent on teasing them. By the time an hour had passed, they were both messes, though Draco could barely tell on Potter how much was his regular disarray and how much was due to the effort he was putting out.

They'd learned each other's strategies too well. Draco now knew how to spot when Potter was feinting, and Potter knew to follow Draco when he predicted the snitch's movements.

"Tie?" Potter suggested, flying by with a rush of air. He had a wild smile on his face and didn’t seem anywhere near to being tired enough to give up.

And while Draco _was_ weary enough to do just that, he decided not to. He'd show Potter. And then he'd show the whole school.

"Not a chance!"

Then Potter saw it.

Draco didn’t see it, but he knew without a doubt that Potter had it in his sights. He didn’t stiffen or lose his smile—he barely looked away from Draco. But there was _something_ in his posture, in his very being, that said he was about to win.

So Draco did what he did best—he pre-empted. He saw Potter feint upward and Draco dived down. Potter's attempt at redirection cost him a half second, but he was more reckless than Draco and his dive was at a steeper incline, nearly vertical until it _was_ vertical and he was pulling away from Draco.

Draco knew the only way to win the game would be to be as rash as Potter. He increased his speed and angled his broom handle directly down. They were both catapulting toward the pitch. Tears streamed out of Draco's eyes and then… he saw it.

He didn’t waste time looking at Potter. He had his eye on triumph and it was going to taste _so_ good.

Something incredibly solid slammed into his back just as something equally solid—the ground—crashed against his front.

When it came right down to it, victory tasted an awful lot like dirt.

Draco struggled to turn over, but the lump on top of him wasn’t moving. When he did manage to get right side up, he saw Potter grinning down at him from his position on top of Draco. Straddling him.

At the same time, both their eyes cast to the side, taking in their clasped hands and the snitch fluttering between their palms.

"Tie?" Potter said, still smiling that stupid, crooked smirk.

Draco bucked and flailed, trying his damnedest to get the snitch away from Potter, but his grip on Draco's hand was too tight, and he kept slamming Draco's arm against the pitch, immobilising it, never breaking his smile.

And then Draco realised why Potter was smiling. He was… inexcusably, undeniably, inexplicably _hard_. His face was _way_ too close to Draco's, his body pinning him, caging him in.

Draco knew when Potter realised that Draco knew he was aroused. The smile slid off his face, but his lips didn't close. They were parted and shone a little with saliva painted by his darting pink tongue. He leaned closer.

"What the fuck is wrong with you, Potter?" Draco growled, trying again to upset Potter and get the hell away from him.

"Draco." Potter moved even closer, and Draco could, if he wanted to, which he didn’t, smell his breath. "It's just a game."

For some reason, the words shocked him even more than the evidence of Potter's deviancy—the evidence that was currently digging into his stomach. Just a game? No. It had never been a game. Not for Draco.

"Let me up," he said in a small voice. He didn’t like the sound of his words, how desperate they were. He didn’t like how unable he was to move, to get up and away from Potter, damn him. Draco _really_ didn’t like how Potter's infinitesimal rocking movements had his own cock responding, especially when his mind disloyally recalled back to the evening before when he'd been witness to Potter's casual wank.

"Tell you what," Potter said, not budging. "New bet. You let me kiss you _right now_. If you make a noise, I win. Hush, let me finish. If you don't, I give you the snitch and walk away, and you can humiliate me according to the first bet. If you don't accept the terms of the new bet, we call tonight a tie and I'll really start putting my all into the game, because I assure you, I haven't been."

Draco's mind didn’t race. It was at a complete standstill. Five minutes of heavy silence must have passed, the only movement between them the heaving of Draco's chest and the occasional twitch of Potter's hips.

A kiss? He could remain silent during a kiss, he knew it. He'd taken worse punishments in the course of his life without a whimper or groan. He knew he could win that bet. But a _kiss_? That was sort of like losing to win. He'd have to _let Potter kiss him._

On the other hand, though he hated to admit it, he believed Potter when he said he hadn't been putting his best effort into their games. They'd just gone on too long, and the ends had been too close. Potter could very well turn the games around, win, and humiliate Draco beyond what his reputation could recover from.

Still. _A kiss._

"How long would the kiss be?" Draco's eyes widened as soon as he realised what he'd said. He chastised his wayward mind for even considering speaking without his permission.

"A minute."

Draco shook his head. "Ten seconds."

Potter laughed. "Even the best kisser couldn’t get a reaction from your frigid lips in ten seconds."

"So you admit that you're a horrible kisser?"

Glaring, Potter said, "Thirty seconds. _Any_ noise."

"But you can't… bite me or anything. Hurt me just to get me to yell, which I wouldn’t, because there's no way you could manage that."

"Then you don't need to worry." Potter rolled his eyes. "But I won't hurt you."

"Wait a second. What do you get if you win?"

Potter looked thoughtful. "If I win, you have to kiss me back for a full minute—and the games continue as planned, with tonight being a tie."

Draco narrowed his eyes. It was a stupid bet for Potter and they both knew it. All Potter would get out of it was a kiss. Even if he won, they still tied. But Draco knew _he_ would win, which would end the games right there and then. He couldn’t _lose_ , even if he lost. Except for the kiss, but… with Potter hovering over him, his lips pink and a little chapped from the wind, that really didn’t seem like such a horrible thing, relatively speaking.

"Thirty seconds. Use the Timing Spell." A part of Draco still couldn’t believe what was happening. He was about to let another bloke—Harry stupid-arse Potter—kiss him. He'd had kisses before, but he couldn’t remember them lasting thirty seconds. That suddenly seemed like way too long for a normal kiss. But then maybe this wasn’t a normal kiss. Draco's heart thudded—what if Potter had some sort of amazing, intense, unbelievable kiss that would make him moan like a cat in heat? Was Potter hustling him?

"Put the snitch aside," Potter said, taking out his wand and casting a spell that had glowing red numbers hover by their side.

With a suspicious look at Potter, Draco pulled the snitch from his hand and put it beside them. It was immobile, knowing the game was over even if the winner hadn't been decided.

"Ready?" Potter asked. He lowered himself so his elbows were stationed at either side of Draco's head, bringing their faces incredibly close together.

"Just get it over with," Draco snapped, his face flushing. He licked his lips and then pursed them—he couldn’t believe he was actually getting prepared to be kissed by Potter.

Potter's face came down and their lips touched. Draco kept his eyes opened long enough to see that the timer had started and then closed them. Potter didn’t really do anything for the first few seconds, but then his lips began to move, teasing, testing the waters.

Draco was very glad to discover that Potter did not have any superhuman kissing powers. The kiss was nice enough, but it wasn’t spectacular.

He couldn’t explain why his lips began to move along with Potter's, but what did it matter? He was silent, his throat totally closed to prevent any unintentional sounds from escaping. He was in absolute control.

Potter's tongue touched Draco's lips, a light flicker that turned into a steady push until Draco opened his mouth, but still he made no noise. Potter's tongue slid in and brushed against Draco's, retreating and making it seem like Draco had no choice but to move his own tongue into Potter's mouth.

Potter made a sound in the back of his throat and they both froze as if trying to decipher who it had come from. But then the kissing began again, even harder.

Draco opened his eyes to see that there were only five seconds remaining. He caught himself just in time to stop from sighing in relief. The kiss wound down, Potter's defeat imminent.

Then Potter's groin made a long slide against Draco's—Draco's cock was _so_ hard it was throbbing—and just as the timer ticked from two seconds remaining to one…

Draco groaned.

In that second, he knew he was lost—he was lost, and he _had_ lost. But instead of storming away to hurt some first year's feelings and throw things in his dorm as he usually did after a defeat, Draco decided it was time to regain the upper hand. He'd pay out his dues with grace, kissing Potter back for a minute—but on _his_ terms.

With a move so polished it wouldn’t have looked out of place in the air, Draco rolled hard, pushing Potter onto his back and pinning him down, his legs settling between Potter's. He didn’t bother looking at the smug and knowing look Potter was surely sporting. Instead, he slammed his lips down and punished his opponent with a kiss.

Even though it wasn’t what he had in mind, it felt like triumph when Potter arched beneath him, his hips urgent against Draco's. There was a moment where Draco considered running away—not just from Potter but from Hogwarts altogether—because here he was, kissing a _boy_ , pressing his parts against a boy's parts like it was totally normal. The thing of it, the humiliation and the pleasure of it, was that it _did_ feel normal.

Draco buried his hands in Potter's hair, tugging and yanking so he could enjoy the noises that escaped from between their lips. Potter twisted beneath him, moving his body so that his groin rubbed against Draco's in long, sensual slides that were only a little awkward, like Potter wasn't quite sure that what he was doing was all right.

It definitely was. But Draco wouldn’t be telling him that.

The kiss just went _on_ until Draco realised that its conclusion was inevitable and if he didn’t do something about it, he was going to be very embarrassed. A minute had more than passed and he just didn’t care. With boldness born of arrogance, Draco reached down between their bodies and tore open Potter's jeans. Potter gasped, breaking the kiss, but he just stared up at Draco with a frown. He looked like he wanted to say something, but he was too busy looked dishevelled and ravished.

Because Draco was still holding himself up with one hand, getting Potter's jeans open was an exercise in frustration. Potter came to the rescue, as was his wont, wriggling his hands between them and opening both his and Draco's trousers.

"Oh, shit," Draco hissed, hips instinctively pressing down. He could feel Potter's pants-clad cock through the thin material covering his own crotch, and Merlin but he wanted all obstacles out of the way.

"Fuck, I know," Potter said with a strangled laugh. He had the same idea as Draco because he was tugging his pants down and doing the same with Draco's. They both froze when Potter's hand touched Draco's cock. It was so much more intimate than a kiss, than their frenzied grinding. Potter's hand shook as he stroked Draco with a few uncertain movements.

Unable to stand the tentative touches, Draco grabbed Potter's hand and pinned it to the grass beside his head. He took both their pricks in his other hand, taking a few moments to get the grip right, before finally thrusting into the hold.

There was no noise but the surprised exclamation from Potter, a sound that deteriorated into moans and gasps that Draco decided he'd heard enough of. He kissed Potter again, so hard they would both feel it for days.

His hand moved as fast as he dared over their pressed-together cocks, precome beading and making the strokes easier when Draco spread both Potter's and his own over their lengths.

"Going to come," Potter said only minutes later, breaking the kiss with a desperate sound.

Draco let himself smirk at Potter, just this one last time. It was good to be in control. Kind of like… winning.

His self-satisfaction didn’t last long, however. When Potter grinned back up at him, Draco lost his tenuous control. His only warning was an immediate tightening and drawing up of his balls, and then he was shouting—half in victory, half in dismay—as he came. His body stayed stiff as it fought through what felt like the longest orgasm of his entire life. So long that he was still coming when Potter jerked upward and came himself. Potter's face in orgasm was fascinating and sort of funny, but not enough to not want to see again.

As soon as that thought passed through Draco's pleasure-saturated brain, he jerked back, off Potter and onto his arse. Had he just—Merlin, yes, he really had.

When he dared to look up, Potter was casually tucking himself back into his pants and jeans, zipping them with finality before meeting Draco's eyes.

"So," Potter said.

Draco swallowed hard and looked away. Potter didn’t look smug or contemptuous or anything Draco had expected. He looked unsure, almost afraid.

Following Potter's lead, Draco put away his satiated prick and sighed. "Same time tomorrow night?" he asked. After all, there was a bet to win. Maybe he'd have Potter tell the whole school how much he loved Draco's dick. The idea had merit, though it could backfire if Potter added a little _loving_ detail to the proclamation.

"Count on it, Malfoy," Potter said, standing. He smiled down at Draco and held out his hand. "Your arse is _mine_."

 _The End._   



End file.
